The Greatest Mage in the World
by Nocturnal Eclipse
Summary: Tormod has always bragged about being the greatest and most dangerous mage anyone would ever meet. But will his skills be enough to see him through the most grueling trial of his life? Written for MewMew's Secret Santa exchange!


All right, here's my story for you Korean Boron-Paper Stars! It's a Tormod fic and I really hope you like it! I hope it doesn't seem too rushed, since I started yesterday and I'm really not that great with deadlines...I'm a bit of a procrastinator :(. Anyways, enjoy! And everybody else, feel free to leave a review! I don't know if it's my _best _work, since I haven't written much for awhile. But I do like it.**

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**The Greatest Mage in the World**

All of his life Tormod had bragged about being the greatest mage in the world. Some found his flashy and arrogant behavior to be incredibly frustrating and many often reprimanded him for it, for it made him reckless and even uncontrollable. Yet Tormod cared little about these opinions. As long as the power was his to control, why should he care what others thought? He believed his ability to wield his powerful fire magic to be unrivaled in not only today's world, but even compared to those that had lived countless centuries before him. In every battle, in every skirmish, he had called upon his terrible and destructive power to burn his enemies to cinders and oftentimes leave nothing more than a pile of ashes in his wake. He had successfully made quite a name for himself, and Tormod could almost grasp at the reality of him becoming a legendary sage that so many would revere him for even long after his death.

A death that may find him quicker than he ever thought.

So now, as he sprinted frantically through the wide and lavishly over decorated halls of Duke Oliver's mansion, Tormod knew that if he didn't find a way to turn the tides of the current battle in his favor, he would feel the icy grip of the pale horseman before the night was over. His dreams of truly becoming the greatest sage in the world would be crushed if that happened.

_The sense of death pervades this place. Why is it that the feeling of dread fills the air? _Tormod thought, trying to push away his fears. All he needed to do right now was focus on running.

He threw open the small wooden door at the end of the hallway and burst through into the next chamber. The room was empty, save for several chairs and a large circular table, the loud footfalls of the pursuing Disciples of Order faded away into the distance. Muarim and Vika emerged through the doorway seconds later, coming to a halt behind him. Both were unshifted, choosing to save the power of their Laguz forms for when they really needed it. Neither of them appeared to be tiring, but Tormod was doubled over with his hands on his knees and panting heavily, all of the constant running beginning to put a strain on his lungs. His legs weren't aching as much as they should be; he was used to running for extended periods of time. He dropped his tome of Bolganone to the floor and took a few breaths to steady himself. Now that the sounds of their pursuers had faded away, surely he could allow himself a brief respite before moving on.

"What do we do now, boss?" Vika asked him, peering cautiously back through the door. "I don't hear those soldiers coming up behind us anymore, but I think we're running out of places to hide. They'll catch up to us eventually." She turned back to him. There was an obvious look of concern in her eyes. "Do we make a stand here or do we keep running?"

"I don't know," Tormod gasped, still unable to catch his breath. _How big is this blasted place anyways? And how many of these Disciples are there? No matter where we run or how many we kill, there are always more waiting to attack us! _They had been lucky thus far, able to ambush their enemies before they could mount a successful attack.

But now they were undoubtedly lost, their supplies running low and their options few. If things kept up as the were, they would definitely end up running straight into a phalanx of lancemen upon opening the nearest door. Even Tormod's wondrous fire magic would fail to save them then.

Muarim approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do you tire, little one? Do you need to rest any longer?" Ever was Muarim's concern solely for the headstrong fire mage and his well-being, particularly in a battle. No matter what happened, Muarim would always hold himself responsible if anything ever happened to threaten the safety of his "little one".

Tormod knew this, of course, but at the current moment he realized that he could spare no time for such feelings.

"There's no more time to rest!" he shouted, pushing Muarim's big hand away. His temper was already short and his mind exhausted, and he tried to mask his irritation with more concern for what they were about.

He seized his spell book from the floor and rose to his feet. "If we stay here any longer, those soldiers will definitely-"

His words were abruptly cut short as shouting arose from the hallway behind them. Their pursuers had caught up to them at last. Before any of them could make a move, a trio of arrows whizzed out of the darkness and through the still open doorway. The first two narrowly missed their targets as Vika stepped behind a nearby chair and Tormod had to jump to the side to avoid being hit in the leg. But the third arrow found its mark and buried itself deeply into the back of Muarim's left shoulder, just below the neck. Muarim screamed in pain and sank to his knees.

"Muarim!" Tormod clambered to his feet and rushed to help his friend, but Muarim waved him away.

"Do not worry about me, little one!" The tone of his voice stopped Tormod in his tracks. Muarim gritted his teeth and reached back to pull the arrow from his shoulder. Blood flowed freely from the wound but Muarim didn't seem notice the pain or he just ignored it. "This wound…is nothing. You must keep moving, little one! I'll hold them off and join up with you later!" He rose to his feet and transformed, letting out a ferocious roar before bounding back into the hallway.

"No, Muarim! I won't let you do this alone!" Tormod started to charge after him, but Vika pulled him back.

"Boss! We have go!" She pulled him back and pushed him along towards the door at the far end of the chamber. "You know that Muarim is strong enough to look after himself. He'll be fine. He's only concerned about you!"

"I don't always need him looking after me!" Tormod shouted back. "I can look after myself! But if he wants to leave in order to give us a chance to escape, then fine!" While he had to resist the urge to turn back and rush to the aid of his friend, Tormod ran on through the nearest door, gripping his spell book tightly in his right hand. Vika was right, though. Muarim would be just fine on his own.

Yet drawing Muarim away from Tormod and Vika was exactly what the enemy had hoped to achieve. A daring gambit, yes, but one that had worked nonetheless. Half a dozen halberdiers and mages awaited Tormod and Vika as the two stepped into the hallway beyond, prepared to bring an end to the tainted souls that had set foot upon this holy ground. They had successfully lured the strongest of the three away and expected little trouble from the two others that remained.

Unfortunately for them, however, Tormod and Vika were not typical adversaries to be taken lightly. While not as physically strong as their massive tiger companion, they compensated for this with their speed and cunning, along with Tormod's fearsome fire magic. The ambush was well placed, the three halberdiers lined up shoulder to shoulder across the hallway and the three sages positioned behind them. Vika immediately transformed and swooped in at the line, nimbly avoiding the fire and thunder spells that the sages threw in her direction. Her swiftness caught the halberdiers unawares and she raked her sharp talons across their faces and snapped fiercely at their necks.

Tormod rushed in then, arms raised high and shouting wildly in the ancient tongue. The tome of Bolganone in his left hand flared to life in a burst of orange flames and spread across the mage's body. The power coursed through him and Tormod felt his strength building. He allowed the fire to fill him up and rejuvenate his failing strength, giving him all of the power he needed.

The magic burst from his fingertips and fire erupted from the floor of the hallway, consuming everything within a ten foot vicinity. The paint and elaborate tapestries burned from the walls and the six unfortunate soldiers standing in the way were cooked alive. Screaming in agony, the men frantically tried to put the fires out, but to no avail. This was not a natural fire and could not be snuffed out by any normal means. Tormod kept the fire in place for a few moments longer to ensure that his enemies were indeed dead before rushing past and following Vika to the nearest door. The smell of charred bone and burning flesh filled his nostrils, but Tormod was immune to such smells. In fact, it filled him with a feeling of invincibility.

Exhilaration surged through him. It had been so long since he had been able to use his power in such a way! He glanced back once at the burning corpses of his enemies and a smile spread across his face. He truly was the greatest and most dangerous mage in the world! Only such a power could belong to him! He was invincible! Nothing could stand in his way now!

_Yes! More, more I say! I am the greatest! _Tormod ran as if possessed. _Find me more enemies to incinerate!_

He and Vika pressed on and eventually Tormod got his wish. Only later he would wish that he hadn't. The two of them charged into the next room and bounded up a flight of stairs. This reckless display of courage, or rather foolhardiness, was reinforced by Muarim's return, having successfully disposed of the remaining enemies behind them. Spurred on by his friend's return, Tormod charged forward, believing that nothing could stop them now.

Yet the second trap laid for them would prove to be much more effective than the first. The three of them had unknowingly charged straight into the main room at the center of the mansion, effectively leaving themselves wide open for attack from all sides. The Disciples of Order were waiting for them, and several dozen soldiers had the trio surrounded in seconds. Several of them closed in immediately and blocked of any avenue of escape that Tormod and the others may find.

Tormod cursed under his breath. "Damn it! We're trapped!"

Vika let out a heavy sigh. "How could we have been so careless?"

"It appears that our luck has finally run out," Muarim added solemnly. "We may not live to see the desert again."

Tormod shook his head furiously. "No! I won't accept that! We're so close to getting out of here! I can feel it! We can't just…"

Tormod wouldn't get to finish. Their enemies rushed them then, two dozen strong, charging out from nearby rooms and stairways, with little care for their own lives. Their only concern was to bring down the trio of intruders, no matter the cost. Muarim braced against the initial assault, his thick hide almost as strong as iron and his will to protect Tormod and Vika just as strong. But the wound he had taken earlier had left him weakened and he quickly disappeared under a swarm of soldiers. Vika took to the air and circled above, trying vainly to avoid the archers and wind sages that sought to bring her down, and Tormod was left to fend for himself.

Tormod let loose the full power of his magic, burning anything that got too close. Gone was the elation he had felt upon using his magic earlier. It was instantly replaced by pure fear and panic. For the first time in years, Tormod was truly afraid for his own life. Never before had he faced a battle of such impossible odds. But surely his magic would be enough to save him! It had never failed him before!

A wall of fire shot up from the ground and surrounded him in a protective ring, but still enemies managed to find an opening and charge through at him. He nimbly evaded arrows and sidestepped lance thrusts, his thin and small form proving advantageous here. He desperately threw out his magic whenever an opening presented itself and turned aside his enemies, only to be met by new foes upon turning around. The fire magic failed to sustain as it had before, this time quickly draining him of his strength from overuse and exerting his body beyond its limits. Tormod knew that he couldn't keep this up much longer.

Turning a bit too hastily to his left after twisting around the lance thrust from a halberdier, Tormod tripped over the blackened corpse of an archer and fell to his knees. His closest enemy, a swordmaster, took advantage of the situation and brought his blade down on Tormod's head. Tormod was barely able to roll to the side, but he was still too slow. The sword swept down and caught him on his left thigh, slashing through skin, muscle and finally bone. Tormod screamed in agony and fell all the way to the ground this time. Too weak to even call upon his magic, Tormod covered his head against the blow that would finish him off.

But the strike never came. Instead, he heard the swordmaster grunt in pain as something struck him from behind. Tormod looked up to see an arrow embedded in the man's neck. A stray from an enemy, perhaps? But Tormod didn't waste time thinking about it. He took advantage of the obvious miracle and fire lanced out from his fingertips, burning the swordmaster to a crisp. The man crumpled to the ground in a charred and lifeless heap.

Tormod struggled back to his feet, his head in a daze and careful to keep the weight off of his injured leg. With the last of his failing strength, he reinforced the ring of fire around him. He looked back down at the dead swordmaster. The arrow. Who had shot it?

"Tormod!"

Tormod felt a surge of hope. He knew that voice! He peered through the smoke and fire in front of him, and at the bottom of a nearby ledge he could see someone. A massive, blue haired man was standing there pointing at him with a peculiar golden sword, and beside him was a crimson clad archer…

The realization hit him like a wave of desert heat. "Ike?" he called out, still not quite believing what he was seeing. "Is that you?"

"Tormod!" The man waved in response. "We're here to rescue you! Just hold your position!"

The fire rekindled inside of him. It _was _Ike! "Of course! Much appreciated, Ike! If you could just-"

A pain unlike any other exploded from within his back and through his chest. Tormod screamed so loudly that his voice reverberated throughout the entire room. He looked down in horror to see the bloodied point of a spear protruding from his chest. The entire shaft of the weapon had been thrust into his back, effectively impaling him through the chest. How? How had that even happened? He had put up his protective ring of fire so that nothing could have gotten through…nothing…

The soldier who had made the fatal wound stepped back and wrenched the lance from Tormod's back and turned away, deciding that his enemy was as good as dead. Tormod fell to his knees, the blood gushing onto the floor. A red haze spread across his vision and his arms fell limp to his sides, the tome of Bolganone dropping uselessly to the floor. He forced himself to look down at his chest and what he saw left him mortified.

Blood. His blood. There was so much of it...he was going to die…

No! He couldn't die! He was too young…there was so much he had yet to accomplish…

The bleak realization swept over him that his magic had indeed failed him. But that couldn't be! He was the greatest mage in the world! There was no way that the magic had abandoned him in his greatest hour of need…

Exhaustion took over his body and Tormod closed his eyes for the final time. Muarim was screaming his name, telling him that it would be all right. Ike was calling for Rhys. The screams of death and the chaos of battle filled his ears and it was a shame that those were the last sounds he would hear on this earth.

An unfamiliar cold swept over him. Strange. His body had always been immune to the cold. The fire had always shielded against it. Tormod's magic had abandoned him for the last time. What a horrible way to die, knowing that the thing that he had depended on the most failed to protect him at the very end.

He hoped that Muarim wouldn't blame himself for this. But Tormod knew that would be inevitable no matter what anybody else said.

Tormod's last thought before collapsing into a pool of his own blood and slipping away entirely was that he had been telling himself lies for almost his whole life.

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Well, KBPS, I hope you liked it, despite its dark ending...


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